A Gathering of Clouds
by Daedros27
Summary: Dark omens swim in the crystal balls of the wise: Lord Voldemort is rising. Some prepare for war, while others prepare for deliverance - and in the end, the outcome will be decided by the last one standing... Completely AU, HP/DG.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: This story is my baby, so to speak - I have over half of it planned out completely, and the entire thing broadly outlined. It is a politically oriented story, but it's also got action/adventure elements, with some romance thrown in as well. It's also told from several points of view. This story was influenced largely by George R. R. Martin's _A Song of Ice and Fire_, and so you may see some similar elements - not so much in the world, but in the style of telling. Hopefully. __It is also completely and utterly AU in that Harry's parents didn't die - more information on that later._

_Disclaimer: I own neither the esteemable Mr. Martin's works nor those of the inimitable J.K. Rowling._

* * *

_Fudge_

The crowd applauded politely as Cornelius Fudge entered the chambers of the Wizengamot. He forced a smile, privately thinking of how many other things he could be doing right now that would be far better uses of his time. The truly sad thing was that he suspected the crowd felt the same way.

More scattered applause came as the seer entered the room carrying a smoky grey crystal ball before her with great reverence. She was clothed in long, many-layered, brightly-colored robes, and she wore thick round glasses that magnified her eyes significantly.

Fudge wondered if she had been given a written statement, or if she would be ad-libbing her prediction.

It was Albus Dumbledore's role as Chief Warlock to make the introductions, and so he stood and began the cursory niceties. It was all fairly standard and not at all different from how it had been three terms ago when Fudge had first become Minister of Magic. Fudge really didn't see the point in the foolishness; everybody present knew that this was the Minister's divining ceremony (and if they hadn't before, the seer and crystal ball should have clued them in).

It might have some sort of basis in educating the children, he mused, noting – among others – Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter sitting beside their respective fathers, watching the proceedings with rapt interest. But really, James Potter and Lucius Malfoy no doubt were explaining the entire thing to them, so the introduction still wasn't _necessary_.

The whole bit of foolishness really wasn't necessary, and now he was back to thinking about all of the more important things he needed to do.

Dumbledore finally finished his speech, benevolent smile on his face, and the seer began chanting softly. The torches along the wall of the chamber flickered, then dimmed, and Fudge shivered as a cool breeze passed through the room. He wondered how much these theatrics were going to cost. Whole-room illusions rarely came cheap.

The seer – Trelaney, or Tralonna, or something like that – opened her mouth to speak, gazing deeply into the crystal ball. For a second, no words came out, tendons standing out in her neck, mouth gaping.

Fudge had to give credit to whomever had devised this scene – and the seer's acting was _excellent_. He found himself interested for the first time today.

Finally, she spoke, in a flat, raspy voice, eyes still lost in the swirling mists of her crystal. "_He approaches, before the end of the reign, inexorable darkness on the horizon... And all may be engulfed in his eternal night, for he shall be greater and more terrible than ever before. Foundations will crumble and blood will betray, for the dusk is upon the world._"

And then she collapsed, blood running from her ears and nose.

Fudge blinked. _What just happened?_

Pandemonium reigned, and Fudge allowed himself to be pulled away from the chamber. Dumbledore stood to calm the crowd, but the door of the chamber closed before Fudge could see if he succeeded. Mind racing, Fudge turned to the man who had just pulled him away, John Dawlish.

"What just happened in there?" he snapped. Dawlish shrugged.

"If that was a real prediction..." Fudge murmured, glancing around the room they stood in. Looking at Dawlish again, he asked, "Have you seen Weasley?"

"Right here, Minister!" cried the boy in question, entering the room. Tall and thin with horn-rimmed glasses and perpetually carrying a small notebook, Percy Weasley was entirely too enthusiastic for his job. But he was a very good aide, and Fudge had found him useful in the past.

"Was Rita Skeeter here, Weasley?" Even as he asked, Fudge knew the answer was obvious; of course she was. Rita Skeeter was always on the scene when careers collapsed.

Weasley nodded, and Fudge cursed. The damage would be much worse now.

"The seer. Who is she?" he demanded. "Does she have any credibility?"

"Her name is Sybil Trelawney, sir," Weasley said. "She is – was the divination professor at Hogwarts. They've taken her to Saint Mungos, and aren't sure if she's going to wake up."

The name made Fudge feel sick. The last time Sybil Trelawney had made a prophecy, the darkest wizard of the century had died.

He supposed that for her final prophecy there was some poetic irony in that it suggested the return of the same wizard.

Speaking aloud, Fudge mused, "So she's probably not been bought off. Well. Good to know that only fate is conspiring against me, and not a politician."

Fudge stroked his chin a moment, lost in thought. The situation was bad. How bad remained to be seen, but – _bad_. That much was certain. Bad enough that he needed to immediately begin trying to salvage what he could.

And also bad enough to quietly prepare an exit strategy or two.

"Weasley," Fudge said, "schedule me a meeting with Lord Malfoy – and after, one with Dumbledore."

"Yes sir," Percy nodded. "As soon as possible, I assume – perhaps tomorrow –"

"Today," Fudge said. "I've no time to waste."

"But –"

"_Today_, Weasley – they will agree, I assure you." Fudge sighed. "Sharks do flock to blood in the water, after all."

* * *

_Harry_

"The Ceremony of Foretelling happens every time a new Minister enters office," James Potter told Harry quietly. "The next day, there's a traditional vote held - the Wizengamot can request that the Minister step down, if they don't like the future foretold."

"Does that happen often?" Harry asked, glancing around the chambers they were seated in, noting the Malfoys several seats down and the Longbottoms, across the room. He looked back at his father in time to catch the older man shaking his head.

"The predictions are usually just propaganda," his father said. "And even when they're not, Divination is notoriously unreliable. The vote is really just a formality - there've been a couple motions to abolish the entire procedure, recently, but there are just enough Lords left clinging to tradition that it's never quite passed."

"Why are so many people here, then?" Harry asked, as the torches on the wall of the chamber died down noticeably, except around the door; there, they brightened.

"The Seer's coming," James said, pointing. "I heard it's Trelawney, this year."

"Trelawney?" Harry asked, as the door opened, revealing his Divination professor. "She's been predicting my death for three years straight now. You'd think Fudge would want someone a bit sunnier."

"For the gold she's getting paid, I bet she's sunny as a summer's day," James chuckled, as Trelawney slowly strode down the aisle, carrying a large crystal ball.

Headmaster Dumbledore then stood, and began to speak.

"We are gathered here today to witness the Ceremony of Foretelling," he said, voice ringing out clear and sharp through the chamber. "Since the first Minister of Magic, the Ceremony has been an integral part of our election process, offering a glimpse into the future of our Minister's reign. I have the utmost faith that Minister Fudge's future will prove to be a bright one, and so I turn the proceedings over to Sybil Trelawney, the lady of the hour."

Dumbledore stepped down, and the Seer began chanting. The torches flickered, then dimmed further, and Harry shivered as a breeze swept the room.

"What's she saying?" he asked his father.

"Ancient words of power, supposedly," James whispered. "Passed down through generations, designed specifically for this purpose."

Trelawney stopped chanting, gazing into the crystal ball, and opened her mouth to speak. A moment passed without a sound leaving her lips, then she spoke, in a voice that was cold and harsh and most certainly not native to the Divination professor Harry knew.

"_He approaches, before the end of the reign, inexorable darkness on the horizon... And all may be engulfed in his eternal night, for he shall be greater and more terrible than ever before. Foundations will crumble and blood will betray, for the dusk is upon the world._"

The words seemed to hang in the air for a moment, and then the seer collapsed, out of sight. Murmurs broke out across the entire chamber, and nobody seemed entirely certain what was happening. Harry glanced up at where the Minister had been sitting to find the seat vacated.

Cursing under his breath, James stood. "Stay here," he said, and began to work his way to the front of the room - presumably to help the Seer.

Promptly ignoring his father's command, Harry turned and searched the crowd for the Longbottoms. Neville's grandmother's large vulture-topped hat stood above the rest of the crowd, and he began to make his way to her.

A hand gripped his elbow gently, and he pulled up short, turning to face Daphne Greengrass. She looked, as always, composed and haughty, but Harry thought he could see cracks forming in her facade - eyes that moved about just a bit too much, hair just a tad out of place, a nervous tapping of her fingers against her thigh.

"Potter," she said. "Does your father know what's going on?"

Harry weighed the consequences of telling her, and answered honestly. "He hasn't said anything to me."

Daphne's cool blue eyes darted over to the group of wizards surrounding the fallen Seer, then back to Harry. "You have taken her class, haven't you? Did it seem real?"

"It was different than anything I've seen in class." Harry shrugged. "Hoping it's true, Greengrass?"

"As much as I'd like an excuse to get move against Fudge," Daphne said, "the return of the Dark Lord would be bad for everyone."

Harry studied her. "I'm glad that you can see that." He wasn't at all sure if he believed her. "I'll owl you if I find anything out." Maybe. Possibly. Probably not, actually.

Daphne nodded. "I'll do the same." She held out her hand, and Harry didn't react for a second. He hadn't been expecting her to offer to shake on it; though it wasn't binding, a handshake still implied that some honor was at stake, and made it likely she was telling the truth.

Slowly, he reached out and took her hand. "I'll await your owl, then," he said.

"And I yours." Releasing his hand, Daphne turned and slipped away into the crowd before he could say anything more.

Shaking his head slightly to clear it, Harry resumed looking for the Longbottoms. He had the sudden feeling that something was beginning, and he didn't like it. Didn't like it at all.


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: So, Chapter Two. Big thanks to everyone who's reviewed/favorited/followed this so far. Enjoy._

_Disclaimer: Not mine._

_Lucius_

"I didn't see Rita Skeeter at the Ceremony of Foretelling," commented Fudge, idly scanning the front page of the _Daily Prophet_, feet resting on his desk. He seemed remarkably relaxed for a man whose career was collapsing.

"Nor did I, but it hasn't seemed to slow her down at all." Lucius sipped the tea he had been offered by Fudge's assistant. "I did attempt to divert her, but she's very singleminded."

"No matter," Fudge said, closing the paper. "It would have gotten out anyway. Although more preparation time would have been nice."

"Indeed," Lucius said. "Have you considered what we discussed?"

Fudge sighed, and dropped his feet from his desk. "Dumbledore has old friends in the Wizengamot," he said. "And as far as the general public is concerned, he practically stopped You-Know-Who singlehandedly last time. Moving against him would be political suicide."

"If we're going to use that metaphor, I think it's safe to say you're breathing your last, politically speaking." Lucius leaned forward. "You have nothing to lose, Minister."

"Nothing to lose. Perhaps. But what will this gain me? A few more months?" Fudge shook his head. "I almost wonder if it would be better to simply resign."

"Attack the seer," Lucius said. When Fudge's eyes cut abruptly to him, he clarified, "verbally."

"You think she's the weak link? Almost all experts agree - it was a true prophecy."

"Only the Unspeakables know that." _And maybe not even them for much longer._ "The public will believe what they want to believe, and nobody is hoping for a return of the Dark Lord."

"And if he is returning, then? We can't afford to bury our heads in the sand, Lucius!" Fudge cried. "What good will a few more months in this office do anyone if You-Know-Who comes back?"

Lucius sighed, and drew his wand, flicking it slightly, protections falling into place all around the two of them.

"We shall need at least a few weeks to tidy things before you go, Minister," he said, speaking softly and quickly. "You are in the midst of many a plot, none of which can be halted in a moment. Further, preparation for the war will be far easier if you are in a position of power, for at least a while."

Fudge rubbed his eyes. "Yes. Yes, of course. But the question remains: how will I remain in office long enough?"

"The seer," Lucius said. "She is the easiest point to attack. Draco tells me she's something of a joke at Hogwarts, even among the other professors."

"The public might be convinced. But as you say, Dumbledore would need to be dealt with. I wonder..." Fudge trailed off thoughtfully.

"I can secure his cooperation, I believe," Lucius said. "But if I do, he will be removed from the Wizengamot."

Fudge shook his head. "You'll never convince Dumbledore to step down."

"You underestimate me." Lucius might have chuckled if he'd been anything less than entirely serious.

"It could work," Fudge admitted, and Lucius felt a momentary surge of triumph. "If you can take care of Dumbledore, then there is a possibility - but the Longbottom bint will likely protest, and I wouldn't be surprised if Potter did."

"Potter's going to be too busy to engage the Wizengamot," Lucius said. "There've already been two riots where the Aurors were called in; if you announce that the Ministry does not endorse the prophecy, more will ensue."

Fudge nodded. "You may not have heard," he said, "but the Death Eaters are already returning. Many are proclaiming their renewed loyalty to the Dark Lord."

_You may not have heard_. A generous statement, Lucius thought, or a foolish one. And Cornelius Fudge was not a fool.

"That will add to the confusion." Lucius tapped his cane against the floor. "I trust Potter is capable of dealing with the threat?"

"He's competent, as always," Fudge said. "Impossible to deal with, but skilled at his work."

"He's an honorable man," Lucius disagreed. "And those are the easiest sort to deal with, once you understand that not all plans require their subject's agreement."

"He's too perceptive," Fudge said. "But he never seems to show it. It's like he's two people, Lucius, like one James Potter works in the shadows with a dagger and a cloak, and another James Potter works in the sun with some bloody sword of justice!"

Lucius studied Fudge's features. The subject of James Potter had reignited the Minister's temper. _Interesting_. "He concerns you so much?"

"Yes, by Merlin's blood!"

Lucius tapped his cane against the floor. Once. Twice. Three times. "It has been a while since I dealt with him," he allowed. "I... cannot say your concerns are unfounded."

"They aren't." Fudge was calming – the red was receding from his face. "Just – I do not think it would be wise to discount Potter, Lucius. Not wise at all."

Lucius nodded. "I shall give the matter consideration," he said. "When we next meet, we will discuss it again. Will that satisfy you?"

Fudge nodded. "Good. Very good.

Lucius flicked his wand, lowering the extra protections he had erected minutes earlier. "Does that conclude our business today, Minister?"

Fudge nodded. "That covers everything, I believe."

Lucius rose from his seat and strode to the door, pausing to look at the chess board set up near the window.

"Pawn to E-four," he said. The small marble figure slid silently across the board. Lucius glanced up at Fudge.

"Do not forget our deal, Cornelius," he said. "Time is running out."

Lucius then turned and walked from the room, not sparing another look for the Minister of Magic.

He navigated the crowded halls of the Ministry without difficulty, weaving between shouting aides, flying memos, weary Ministry workers, and the odd owl. It seemed that wherever he walked, a path would form before him, with others stepping out of the way reflexively. Lucius' lip curled; the world was full of people willing to stand aside at the slightest imperative.

One-and-a-half stairwells, three elevators, and one disappearing door later, Lucius stood before a Floo exit in the Atrium. He took the powder in his hand, threw it in, intoned, "Malfoy Manor," and strode into the fireplace.

He landed in his home, his pace perfectly timed to hit the floor when he reappeared. Lucius stepped out of the fireplace, shaking soot from his clothes onto the rug.

"Disgusting method of travel," he muttered. "Dobby!"

With a _crack_ the Malfoy family elf appeared before him, cowering as always. A pathetic, foolish creature, but one who had its uses. Lucius pointed at the rug.

"Clean it," he ordered. "And after, fetch me some tea. I will be in the study, with Narcissa."

The elf nodded frantically. It hadn't spoken since Lucius had removed its tongue after it attempted to tell an enemy of his plans several years ago.

The study was an oak-paneled room with filled with many bookcases, a large desk, and several large, comfortable chairs. Lucius found Narcissa sitting at the desk, poring over a tome whose pages were yellowed and cracked.

"The cover-up is in progress," he informed her. She looked up, peering at him over rectangular reading glasses.

"The Dark Lord will no doubt be pleased."

"I don't intend to find out." Lucius sat in one of the large chairs. He tapped his cane against the floor. "I hope to never stand in his presence again."

Narcissa bit her lower lip. "Lucius..."

"We've discussed this," Lucius said. "Do you recall the last war at all?" His cane, held tight in his right hand, trembled with the force of his anger. "Do you remember my father? Your mother? Do you remember what happened to Draco?"

"Lucius!" Narcissa snapped. "Lower your voice. He'll hear."

"He should know," Lucius said, but he spoke more quietly anyway. "We should have told him."

"He's too young."

"Yes." Lucius rubbed his face with one hand. "Much too young. But old debts are coming due, and he doesn't even know."

"There are still books. Possibilities. This one looks promising. He never has to know."

Lucius sighed and stood. "Show me."

_Daphne_

"_...true... could be that he's in the middle of it all. Potter..."_

"_No! ...starting already. Signs... storms over... rising!"_

Daphne twirled her wand ever so slightly, making minute adjustments to the silver wibblers within her Wizarding Wireless. She was getting bad reception, which made her wonder if perhaps her father had found the tiny embroidered design inside the left shoulder of his robes. She didn't think he'd be mad, if he had. Irritated that he found them, maybe, or amused.

She wasn't even sure who he was meeting with today, or where, just that it was important, and that it was about the prophecy. Although the longer she listened, the more it seemed to be about a particular Potter. James, Lily or Harry – that was the question.

James Potter seemed a likely choice to Daphne. He was popular, skilled – and most importantly, he'd been there when the Dark Lord had fallen fifteen years ago. Lily Potter she knew little about; the woman ran an apothecary in Diagon Alley and seemed fairly unremarkable.

Daphne was pulled from her thoughts as a moment of clarity pierced the static, and she was given a single sentence, clear as day:

"_We can't afford to ignore Trelawney – the last time she made a prophecy, the Dark Lord fell."_

Oh. Oh, that was unexpected.

Last time... there had been a prophecy. A _true_ prophecy, told by Trelawney. And that pretty much blew the biggest argument against the validity of this prophecy right out of the water, because everyone was assuming Trelawney was incompetent –

Which sent her mind spiralling down the path of _wait who actually knows about this_ and _what does that mean_?

Her father knew, and the person he was meeting with. And it was said easily, like it was nothing new, nothing horridly secret among their circles. This meeting had been high security, yes, but how high? Wizengamot-high? Unspeakable-high?

Minister-high?

The size of the conspiracy depended entirely on the answer, but Daphne couldn't guess. It didn't seem either secret or obvious enough for a meeting with the Minister, but who knew? Her father was wealthy and well-respected, as well as a very generous supporter of Fudge; a meeting between the two of them wasn't out of the question.

A chill ran through her body as Daphne realized that if it hadn't been so public, this prophecy would be spoken of only in the same whispers, and nobody would know.

She couldn't decide if that would be better or worse.

The Wireless set had cut out entirely by now, and was only offering white noise, but Daphne was more than satisfied. The question now was how this information would best be used.

At the very least, it would be an excellent bargaining chip in her dealings with Harry Potter.

_James_

The medallion on the bedside table rattled slightly, jolting James Potter awake. He clapped a hand over it, stifling its vibration. Beside him, his wife mumbled in her sleep and rolled over, but didn't wake.

Carefully standing from the bed, James donned his nightshirt, grabbed his wand, and slipped out of the room. The medallion still vibrated in his hand as he padded down the stairs, to the sitting room.

"_Incendio_," he murmured, flicking his wand at the empty fireplace, and instantly the ashes were replaced with a warm, crackling fire. He reached inside a small bag on the mantle and grabbed a pinch of Floo powder, tossing it into the fire.

"Incoming," James said, and Kingsley Shacklebolt's face appeared in the flames.

"Sorry to wake you, sir," he said. "But we have a situation in Little Hangleton. Some reports of a Dark Mark and strange rituals."

James cursed. "Again."

"Again," Kingsley confirmed, though it hadn't really been a question.

"I'll be there in five."

Kingsley's head disappeared, and James hurried to dress.

Ten minutes later, James strode through Little Hangleton. The Dark Mark hung over a manor house on a hill, and he could see spellfire lighting its windows.

"Fuck," James breathed. He stopped, twisted to the side, and disappeared into the crushing tunnel of apparition, only to be flung back forcefully, landing flat on his back. Something warm was trickling down his face, and he wiped it off, hand coming away red. His head throbbed and the world looked blurry.

Merlin's blood, he hated anti-apparition wards.

Groaning, James pushed himself to his feet and limped in the direction of the manor.

The house had probably been handsome once. At the beginning of the night, it had probably been the perfect haunted house. Now, though, the lawn was scorched black from spellfire. The house was burning. James could see at least three people lying still outside.

Over the entire spectacle, the Dark Mark hovered, casting a sick green light.

James crossed the lawn, forcing himself to ignore the bodies. _Gotta help the living, Jimmy_. He didn't bother to try and open the door to the manor; a flick of his wand blasted it open. Inside, the walls were covered in sigils drawn in blood. Not a good sign, never a good sign.

Torn between destroying the symbols and searching for their creators, the decision was made for him when the spellfire from the second floor stopped and was replaced with screaming.

James limped as quickly as he could as the screaming intensified. He climbed a large and once-impressive staircase, and followed the screaming to a room with a closed door. James reached for the handle, but released it immediately, hand scorched.

"_Bombarda!" _he cried, blasting the door inward – but as he crossed its threshold, he froze in place, paralyzed. Paralysis wards of some sort.

_Fuck_.

Before him, Kingsley lay on the floor in the middle of a complex design, something James had never seen before but really, really didn't like the look of.

"Hello there." James' attention was drawn to the speaker, a man he only vaguely knew as Augustus Rookwood. He had a harsh, cruel face, and eyes that looked perpetually merry, and the combination had always made James uneasy. _Should've listened to those instincts, Jimmy._

"Rookwood. What are you doing?"

"Throwing a welcome-back party, James," Rookwood said pleasantly. "Haven't you heard? The Dark Lord is due back any day now."

"Oh, I heard all about it," James said. "It sounds like a load of shit to me. Voldemort's dead, you crazed bastard."

"_Crucio_," Rookwood said softly, gently, flicking his wand slightly, and James screamed. Knives slashing every inch of his body, needles in each pore, fire in his veins, and he couldn't even thrash and writhe – then it was over.

"Please refer to my Lord by his proper title, James," Rookwood said. He approached Kingsley, producing a silver knife from his robes. "Your friend, James, he should be proud. He's contributing to something greater than any of us."

"What are you doing?"

"This knife was hard to prepare," Rookwood said, ignoring the question. "Imbued with the blood of a male unicorn, a werewolf, and a virgin, all under the same full moon. And it can only be used once."

"What are you _doing_?" James shouted.

Rookwood smiled. "Don't worry, James. I'll make certain he doesn't wake while I'm cutting his heart out." He chuckled. "I'm not... _heartless_, after all."


	3. Chapter 3

_Harry:_

"Hello, Harry Potter."

Starting, Harry rolled off the bench he'd been laying on, falling to the concrete below. He staggered to his feet, turning in a circle to take in his surroundings, and seeing a man standing beside the bench. He was tall, and well-dressed, with dark hair and eyes.

"Is this King's Cross?" Harry asked. "And who the hell are you? How did I get here?"

"Please, Harry." The man sat on the bench. "Calm yourself. We are in a dream – your dream. And mine as well, I suppose." He sighed. "Perhaps a slower approach would have been better. Something more subtle, less likely to frighten you – but I don't have the luxury of time right now. But I can promise, Harry, that I mean you no harm."

Harry slowly backed up. "I'm not sure I believe that."

"You should. And you will, in time. But for now... I am Tom Riddle, Harry." Harry didn't recognize the name, and Riddle seemed to realize, because he elaborated, "You may know me by the name Lord Voldemort."

Plunging his hand into his robes, Harry was horrified to realize his wand was missing, and he took off running.

Suddenly, the scene changed; Harry was floating in midair, legs and arms pumping, while Voldemort stood beside him.

"Come now, Harry," Voldemort said. "You're not a skilled enough Occlumens to escape me here. Please. Sit down. I only wish to talk, and we are running out of time."

"You tried to kill my family," Harry spat, halting the motion of his legs. Voldemort nodded, looking mildly regretful.

"I did," he admitted. "But I didn't want to, Harry, and that is the truth."

The scenery changed again, and the two stood in the middle of a field, in a thin dirt path. Voldemort gestured. "Shall we?"

Grudgingly, Harry started walking at the same time Voldemort did, if only because he suspected the other wizard would simply float him alongside if he did otherwise.

"I don't believe you," Harry said. "And as soon as I wake up – "

"What?" Voldemort said, looking at Harry and raising an eyebrow. "What will you do? Will you go to your father with claims of speaking to me in a dream? To Albus Dumbledore? How will they react to that, Harry?"

"Shut up." Harry clenched his jaw.

"We've gotten off on the wrong foot entirely, I'm afraid," Voldemort said, a bit sadly. "I don't want to make an enemy of you, Harry."

"Should have thought about that sixteen years ago," Harry said. "Because if Dumbledore hadn't stopped you, my entire family would have been next."

Voldemort stopped short at that statement, turning to look at Harry, head cocked sideways. "Dumbledore... ?" he breathed – and then he chuckled. "They never told you? Oh, now that is interesting."

Harry laughed. "So you want me to think there's some conspiracy around me? Something everyone's keeping from me? That sounds likely."

Voldemort shook his head. "One day, Harry Potter, you will appreciate the fact that I have never and will never lie to you."

"I'm sure," Harry said. "You're a great guy at heart, really. Just misunderstood."

"It was never Albus Dumbledore," Voldemort said, ignoring Harry. "He hadn't even arrived yet. You see, that night was never about your parents, Harry. I left your father alive because he was pure of blood. I left your mother alive because of an old debt. And then I moved to you, sleeping in your crib. You hadn't woken, even though your house was burning around us."

"Stop," Harry said. "Stop it. Stop it right now."

"I didn't want to. Killing children, Harry – it's not something I take pleasure in. But it had to be done. You, only a child, but destined to slay me... it couldn't be allowed. My work was – _is_ – too important. Of course, you slew me anyway, didn't you – or something close to it."

"I don't believe in destiny." Harry stared at the ground, at the sky, at the grass, at anything but Voldemort. "And your _work_ is over. You're dead. I don't know how you're here, but – "

"Not dead," Voldemort said. "I have taken certain... precautions, you see. And as for how I am here: a colleague has pierced the veil for me, parted the curtain long enough for me to stick my head through for a time."

"Fine," Harry said. "That's the how. Why? Did you just come to babble about destiny?"

Voldemort smiled, a little sadly. "Something like that, I'm afraid." He began walking down the path again, and Harry fell into step with him without thinking. "I could feel it when the Seer spoke. A true prophecy, you see, sends echoes beyond the realm of its utterance. And so I knew that you were ready."

"Ready for what?" Harry didn't want to know, and didn't know why he'd asked.

"Ready for me, Harry," Voldemort said. "On that night, my body was destroyed when I attempted to kill you. Turned to ash, and scattered to the corners of the world by magic older and greater than either of us. I could never reclaim it, if I tried for a thousand thousand years. I am a soul without flesh, and I need... a vessel, of sorts."

"You're joking," Harry said. "You have to be joking." He realized, belatedly, that they had apparently stopped again on the path, though he hadn't noticed when it had happened. "I'd die first."

Voldemort shrugged, a fluid, almost full-bodied gesture that reminded Harry of a snake. "I, of course, can do nothing without your consent. But you see... in time, you will give it. It is written, Harry Potter. You are destined to be my wand, to strike down the unworthy and purify our world. Tomorrow, or a year from now – you will agree."

"I'll never let you in," Harry spat. "Never."

"I know you think so now," Voldemort said. "But... give it time, Harry." He looked at his bare wrist and frowned. "It seems we've run out of time. This was an excellent conversation. I bid you good night – and do not forget my offer."

Harry blinked, and Voldemort was gone, as if he'd never even been there in the first place.

_Narcissa:_

"Very witty," Narcissa said dryly. "Midnight at a crossroads. You always had a sense of humor, Andromeda."

"Thank you," said Andromeda Tonks, stepping forward and making an awkward motion toward Narcissa, like an abbreviated attempt at a hug. Narcissa pursed her lips and crossed her arms, shivering slightly in the cool night air, and Andromeda stepped back again, looking slightly sad.

"Why have you asked me here?" Narcissa asked, ice in her tones. "I have only a little time before Lucius notices I'm missing."

"Yes. Yes, of course." Andromeda swallowed. "The Dark Lord is returning."

"Foolishness – "

"We both know it's not, so spare me." Now that the conversation was moving, Andromeda looked more confident. "The first thing he's going to do is punish those he feels were unfaithful."

"Lucius and I are quite alright, thank you," Narcissa said. "Is that all?"

"This has nothing to do with Lucius," Andromeda said. "Frankly, I'd be shocked if Lucius needed any sort of help. I have no doubt he's already scheming his way out – or in, as the case may be." Her voice turned acerbic as she finished.

"Than what do you want?" Narcissa asked.

"Many are still in Azkaban," Andromeda said. "Easy targets for the wrath of a madman recently revived. Bella is still in Azkaban, sister. The others I've got no pity for, but Bella was our sister."

"Bella is dead," Narcissa said flatly. "I have no doubt the Dementors devoured whatever humanity she may have had within her years ago. Anything the Dark Lord might do to her would be a mercy."

"Narcissa – "

"Shut up." Narcissa could feel a slowly-building fury. "Sixteen years, she's been tortured, placed into the closest thing to hell on earth I've ever seen. And you show up now? Where were you when they dragged her away screaming, playing house with your pet Mudblood? Because I didn't see you at her trial. I went. I watched her sob when they condemned her, then I watched her start cackling as they took her. It's too little too _fucking_ late, Andromeda." Narcissa felt a savage stab of triumph as tears rolled down her sister's face.

"Maybe you're right," Andromeda said. "Maybe I'm too late, but that's why I have to do something, Narcissa, don't you see – "

"You don't have to do anything, and neither do I," Narcissa said, turning to walk away. "Good night, Andromeda, and I hope you go to hell."

"Wait," Andromeda said. Narcissa didn't turn. "Narcissa. Wait. You owe me. You owe me, Narcissa!"

Narcissa stopped.

"Bitch," she murmured, then turned around. "Clever girl, Andromeda. I see you've discovered how to use a life debt to your advantage."

"I'm sorry, Narcissa. I'm so sorry. But I can't do this alone. And I have to try, even if it is too little too late. Can't you see that?"

"All I see," Narcissa said, "is a woman who sees her death approaching, and is desperately trying to find some perverse redemption before it takes her."

"I don't suppose I could use the life debt to make you shut up?" Andromeda snapped

"We swore we wouldn't let them divide us," Narcissa said, ignoring her. "I tried to contact you, Andromeda. In the first year, I sent you so many letters. But you know that, because you sent them all back. We could have saved Bella if you kept your promises."

"I don't need your judgement!" Andromeda said, finally getting angry. "All I need is your help, and I have that. Go back to your Death Eater husband, sister, and don't lecture me on the fine points of morality."

"I will," said Narcissa. "But regardless of who my husband is, at least I didn't abandon my family when they needed me the most."

"Mother made it clear that we weren't family anymore," Andromeda said.

"Mother was a psychotic bitch!" Narcissa shouted harshly. "And we said we didn't care! We swore, Andromeda!"

"I don't need to listen to this," Andromeda said. "I'll contact you when I need you, sister. Until then... stay safe." She twisted, and disappeared into the night with a _crack_.

"Stay safe," muttered Narcissa, laughing harshly. "Safe. Yes, I'll try to do that, dear. As will we all."


	4. Chapter 4

_A/N: Here's chapter four, folks, a nice 2600 words. Again, huge amounts of gratitude to all who've reviewed, favorited, followed - or hell, many thanks if you just read the damn thing. And if you did read it, please do review. Feedback of all kinds is fantastic. Here's hoping you enjoy the fourth chapter._

_Disclaimer: Dani the girl is singin' songs to me beneath the marquee..._

* * *

_Lucius:_

His arm burned as he walked through the gates of Hogwarts, and Lucius knew that if he rolled his sleeve up, he'd see the Dark Mark writhing on his forearm. The wards would have flared at the contact with the dark magic inherent in the mark, and Dumbledore would be expecting him with thought of Lucius' previous indiscretions fresh in his mind, as well as irritation at the unexpected invasion of his sanctuary.

Another man might have considered this a poor way to begin a negotiation, but Lucius was not that man. He believed that entrances were very important, and had considered his carefully. He had intended to Floo in originally, at a predetermined time and date, to make Dumbledore feel as if he had control over the entire situation, to make him comfortable, to get him into the optimal mood for negotiation...

And then Lucius had laughed at his own foolishness and scrapped his plans. On Cornelius Fudge, it would have worked. Albus Dumbledore, however, operated on an entirely different level. _Plots within plots..._

And so this particular entrance was calculated to appear uncalulated to appear desperate to appear weak to appear honest.

When he had explained it to Narcissa she said that the thought of it made her head hurt, and he had said that trying to out-scheme Albus Dumbledore was enough to make anybody's head hurt.

Lucius found himself standing before the gargoyle that guarded Dumbledore's office. He didn't have the password, but it didn't matter; Dumbledore would let him in. He couldn't afford not to, not now – especially since Dumbledore knew better than anyone just how valid Trelawney's prophecy was.

The gargoyle shifted to the side, and as Lucius walked up the spiral stairs to the Headmaster's office, he felt only slightly off-balance. There had been almost no delay whatsoever in the opening of the office. No power games? Dumbledore should have made him wait, should have accentuated the fact that he controlled the situation.

Lucius raised his hand to knock on the door to the office, feeling a sinking sensation in his stomach, like maybe, even though he had hidden his plot inside several others, Albus Dumbledore was _still ahead of him_.

But the scene that greeted his eyes when the door swung open seemed to contradict that thought.

The office was in disarray; Dumbledore looked almost feverish, long white hair and beard wild. Books were scattered around the room, clearly tossed aside during some furious search, and Dumbledore's phoenix looked worn, aged, like it might burst into flames any moment. It didn't look all that dissimilar to Dumbledore, currently.

Piercing blue eyes locked on Lucius, pinning him in place. "Lucius Malfoy. I was going to Floo you, soon."

"Oh?" Lucius felt off-balance still, but he wasn't sure who held the power in this situation, and he wasn't sure if that was good or bad.

"Yes." Dumbledore's voice was reedy, worn. "I need your help, Lucius."

"My help." Lucius was having a difficult time processing the words, having expected to have to beg for Dumbledore's help in this meeting. "Of course. Whatever I can offer."

Dumbledore stood from his desk and walked to the large window overlooking the Black Lake. Lucius noted the slump of his shoulders, the slouch in his posture; the old man was even more tired than he'd thought.

"I consulted Minerva about this," Dumbledore said softly. "And she thinks me a fool. And perhaps I am, seeking the assistance of a former Death Eater to resist Voldemort's return. But... I think you are an intelligent man, Lucius. I think you see what you lost last time, what you still stand to lose. And so I believe that in this, if nothing else, you can be trusted."

"In what?" Lucius asked. His heart pounded; he recognized the implication Dumbledore had just made. _What you still stand to lose_ – the old man knew about Draco.

This had not been in the plan.

"This evening, the vote is being held," Dumbledore said. "The Minister must remain in office."

"I... am surprised that you think so," Lucius said.

"We cannot afford weakness," Dumbledore said. "The prophecy must be discredited, and the Minister must appear strong. Public panic is possibly the largest immediate danger we face." He sighed, rubbing his eyes. "Furthermore, if Cornelius is removed as Minister, I shall be pushed to take the job, and I simply will not have the time for it."

Dumbledore began pacing, and Lucius moved forward and sat in the chair before his desk.

"The Wizengamot will never keep Cornelius as the Minister as long as you are a viable option," Lucius said. "Having destroyed Voldemort last time, many believe you're our only hope."

"Yes," Dumbledore said. "You are right. And so that is why I will be leaving politics, Lucius."

Lucius' cane slipped through his fingers, and he only just caught it before it fell to the floor. "Oh?" His voice sounded slightly strangled. There was an angle here, and he should see it by now. Dumbledore was playing him somehow, because everything was falling into his lap, and that didn't happen.

"Indeed," Dumbledore said. "I shall focus more upon Hogwarts and her students. It will provide a suitable amount of relief to parents, I should think."

"Who will replace you?" Lucius asked. "Are you able to specify a replacement?"

Dumbledore stopped pacing and looked at Lucius, eying him for a long moment. "Not typically," he said. "However... in this case, I think so. There are precious few people suited for the task, Lucius, and absolutely none of them are available. And so I think that you may be the best choice."

This made no sense.

Dumbledore had no reason to trust him. Lucius had fought with the Dark Lord during the last war, escaped incarceration on the back of a desperate lie, and paid handsomely to keep the truth under wraps even now. Dumbledore _knew_ this.

But. Dumbledore also knew about Draco.

And Lucius was starting to feel like he wanted absolutely nothing to do with Dumbledore's position, even though he'd come intending to secure it for himself.

"I will not give it to you," Dumbledore said. "Not without receiving something in return. I require you to step down from your position on the Hogwarts Board of Governors."

Oh. _Oh. _It all was starting to make sense now. Oh yes. Dumbledore wasn't just trying to keep the Minister in office; he was cutting himself off from the Ministry entirely, consolidating his power over Hogwarts. And this way, if the Ministry fell, if Lucius defected to the Dark Lord, it wouldn't matter. Dumbledore would be safe, secure, and firmly in control of the most magical structure in Britain, the children of his enemies, and the most impressionable army he would ever have access to.

And that meant that _Dumbledore thought the Ministry would fall_, and that was incredibly incredibly _not good_.

But the hell of it was that Lucius couldn't afford to turn down his offer.

"I shall do so immediately," he found himself saying. And despite the fact that he had gotten what he wanted, he felt like he had just made a deal with the devil.

"I expect that we will work together in the coming days," Dumbledore said. "The left hand must be in tune with the right, of course."

"Of course," Lucius said, forcing himself to think about the matter directly at hand. "Are we in agreement, then, that the Seer must be discredited in order to publicly destroy the prophecy?"

Dumbledore sighed. "I'm afraid so. Sybil has never been the most... _stable_ of people. It will not be unbelievable that she simply had a psychotic break. The Healers say she is unlikely to wake up for some time as well, so she will not be able to deny any accusations leveled against her."

"Excellent," said Lucius, privately thinking that it would be far better if she never woke at all. "And tonight, the votes will go in the Minister's favor?"

"Before announcing my decision to step down, I will declare the prophecy false. That will be the official word; you must speak to your acquaintances beforehand, and I to mine. The word must be spread, then confirmed. Then, without another viable option, they will almost certainly rule in favor of Cornelius."

"Very well," Lucius said. "Is there anything else?"

Dumbledore shook his head, sitting down heavily in his chair, eyelids drooping. "No. That is all, I think."

"Get some sleep," Lucius advised. "You're no good to anyone if you die before you can kill the Dark Lord again."

Dumbledore laughed, seeming to find the statement highly amusing. "If only I had the time to sleep, Lucius."

* * *

_Daphne:_

James Potter was missing, presumed dead, and she wondered if she should say something in the letter. She didn't know Harry; he was from another house, and didn't socialize much even among his own. She knew she wouldn't appreciate the sentiment from somebody she didn't know, but she also knew it would be almost impolite not to acknowledge it.

She really shouldn't have put off writing the letter yesterday – or, better yet, bloody James Potter shouldn't have been so inconsiderate as to get himself murdered the day she wanted to negotiate with his son. Writing the letter yesterday would have been a breeze; several curt sentences outlining the basics of what she had discovered, a vague teaser for more, and a request for a response. But empathy was very difficult to gauge when trying to cultivate some sort of long-term contact with a potential ally.

Or at least, that's what her tutors had always said, and she figured they were right, because Daddy had paid only for the very best.

The entire situation was very delicate; she had only one piece of information to bargain with, and it was information that couldn't be withheld long. It was going to be difficult to keep Harry on the hook, but she needed him; he was her link to the opposition of Voldemort.

In the end, she settled on something simple, a not-too-overly-emphasized throwaway sentence that offered her condolences. It was something he could easily ignore if he didn't want her sympathy, and something she could build from if he did. The letter left on the leg of her tawny owl, and Daphne settled herself in to write another, very similar letter to Draco Malfoy. It was always good to cover _all_ of your bases, after all.

She wasn't expecting a response to come back from Harry until at least the next day; she would have assumed he was busy dealing with the news of his father's disappearance. So it was a surprise when a snow-white owl flew through her window only an hour after hers left. It carried a small piece of parchment, with a curt message:

_Going to Diagon Alley tomorrow for school supplies. Meet me at Fortescue's at eleven. -H.P._

Huh.

It was good, and it was bad. He hadn't brought up the subject of his father; she didn't need to attempt any more empathy. On the other hand, he had taken control of the correspondence. Now she had to meet him where he wanted, when he wanted, or the deal would be off.

On the other other hand, wanting to meet in person had to signify news of some importance – or that he had found her hints to be extremely interesting. There was definitely some form of interest there, which could only be good for continued association.

All in all, Daphne decided, a win.

But she hoped Malfoy didn't respond similarly; two meetings in Diagon Alley on the same day would start to become difficult to manage.

* * *

_Narcissa:_

"I'd hoped it would be longer than a day before I heard from you again," Narcissa said, dusting the soot from her robes and onto the fine rug in Andromeda's office. She hoped the stain never came out.

"How unfortunate for you," Andromeda said, perched behind her desk and sounding not at all sympathetic. "I need help."

"Yes. You do. I hear they have fantastic Mind-Healers at St. Mungo's, you should try there." Narcissa was in no mood to be here tonight; the vote that would decide the Minister's future was happening right now, and she wasn't getting to be there because of her stupid, stupid sister.

"Always the witty one, weren't you Cissy?" Andromeda said. "The smart comments haven't slowed down any. But no. I haven't got any need for a Mind-Healer. I need help with the plan."

"Oh? You have a plan now?" And what kind of train-wreck could Andromeda have come up with in only a day?

"The beginnings of one," Andromeda said. "We'll need a Time-Turner. That's what I need your help in getting now."

"A Time-Turner." Narcissa laughed. "You want me to just 'get' a Time-Turner? They're one of the most heavily restricted devices in Britain!" _And also an idea that has potential._ Narcissa felt mildly intrigued about this plan now.

"Hermione Granger got one several years ago in order to take extra classes at Hogwarts," Andromeda said. "How heavily restricted can they be?"

"Hermione Granger is the entire reason they're heavily restricted now," Narcissa said grimly. "The stupid girl turned Hogwarts upside down with that foolish thing. She's still not been caught, and Time-Turners are about as heavily-guarded as the Philosopher's Stone."

"Ah," Andromeda said, and from the look on her face Narcissa assumed her sister might have a better grasp on the situation now. Her next words proved this assumption wrong, however. "But can you get one?"

Narcissa's tone turned icy. "My husband was a Death Eater sixteen years ago. That does not mean I am a common criminal. Of course I have no way to simply 'get' a Time-Turner!"

"I understand that," Andromeda said, irritatingly calm, "but given time, could you find a way?"

"I don't know," Narcissa said. "Possibly. Is it really so integral to your foolish plan?"

"It is," Andromeda said. "In fact, my entire foolish plan centers around it. If you can't get it, then simply tell me; I'll find another way."

Narcissa paused, thinking. It could probably be done. Not by her, of course – but if she called in a favor or two... It could be done. As heavily screened as Unspeakables were, she still knew at least one who might be willing to help out, in order to regain control of some fairly incriminating memories Narcissa had stored in a very safe place.

"Tell me your plan," Narcissa said. "If the Time-Turner is really so important, I'll find a way."

Andromeda brightened, and moved to the desk in her office. She began pulling rolls of parchment out of it, talking animatedly. "Well, it's all fairly complex – these are the diagrams I made, I sort of had to after a bit because my head hurt from all of the time travel..."

Narcissa groaned, putting her head in her hands. _I hate these sort of plans within plans._

It was going to be a long night.


	5. Chapter 5

_A/N: It's been a while, ladies and gents, but finally I have a bit of an update for you. I'm afraid I can't commit to any sort of update schedule these days, as I'm currently slogging my way toward a computer science degree, but I do enjoy working on my stories and hope I'll be able to update more. Reviews help a lot, by the by – if you like what you read, review and tell me just how awesome I am. Or if you don't like it, leave a review to that effect - nothing wrong with a bit of criticism._

_Disclaimer: It's not mine, nope._

* * *

_Daphne:_

"You look terrible," she informed Draco. He grunted, brushing soot from his robes. His eyes seemed dull and sunken, and his hang hung lank from his head. He looked exhausted.

"What's happening?" he asked. Robes somewhat cleaner, Draco stepped away from the fireplace and sat – almost collapsed – into the nearest chair.

Daphne eyed him speculatively. "What's happening with you?" she asked. "I wasn't joking. You look like complete shit."

"Haven't slept since the prophecy was made." Draco's tone was clipped, curt. "Father's being remarkably closemouthed about the whole thing, and I think it may drive me mad. Now. Tell me what you know."

"And if I do?"

"You'll receive my undying gratitude," Draco said dryly. "What is it that you want, Daphne?"

"I want to know what you find out, what you're planning," she said. "I want to help."

Draco shook his head wearily. "No. You don't, actually. You don't even want to be affiliated with the Malfoy name. But I have something you want, so you're willing to compromise."

When she didn't respond, he sighed deeply and rubbed his eyes. "Listen to me. I have not slept in days. My father has closed himself off from me. My mother appears to have forgotten that anything exists outside of her library. And most of all, people keep lying to me. Stop lying to me, Daphne. You don't have the knack for it, and I don't have the patience."

Daphne's jaw tightened. "You must be even more tired than you look, because you're wrong. What I said was the truth. You're operating from the assumption that I don't want to be associated with your family in case the Dark Lord does return, which is entirely incorrect. The Malfoys are either going to be in or out. If you're in, you're safe, and I'm safe by extension. If you're out, it's because your father has a way to keep safe, because he's damn cautious when it comes to you."

Draco watched her with bloodshot eyes. "You seem pretty sure of yourself, there," he said.

"I started preparing for this as soon as the prophecy was read," Daphne said. "I haven't gotten much sleep either."

"Preparing to talk to me?"

Daphne shook her head. "Preparing for the war."

"The Greengrass family survived fine neutral, last time," Draco said. "Why not this time?"

"Oh, come on, Draco," Daphne said. "You're not that tired. The first thing Voldemort's going to need? An army. Where's he going to get it?"

"Azkaban is full of his most loyal," Draco said. "And I'd have to assume the Dementors would be only too happy to follow him."

Daphne shook her head. "The Ministry will remove the Dementors, and Azkaban holds maybe twenty Death Eaters, at best. No. He's going to be recruiting. And at Hogwarts, there's not going to be a middle ground, Draco – no 'neutral' option this time, not for me. And I want to survive this school year."

"So make a choice," Draco said. "I'm not seeing anything here, Daphne. You're throwing a lot of words out there, but it's nothing new."

"I can't do anything myself," Daphne said. "I need help..."

"You need control," Draco said. "I told you I was tired, Daphne. If I wasn't, I'd be happy to talk around this, but you know what? I'm sick of it. You're power-hungry. You don't just want to survive, you want to make things happen. A control freak, but you've got nothing to back it up. That's why you need me. Slytherin would eat you alive; the other houses would laugh in your face. But I don't have any reason to need you, Daphne. You really think I can't get whatever information you have elsewhere, cheaper? Give me a _real _reason, or tell me otherwise so I can go home to try to sleep."

Daphne swallowed, throat suddenly dry. Draco Malfoy seemed feeble, slumped over in a chair in her living room, voice raspy and eyes red, but he had just effortlessly deconstructed her argument, almost carelessly. She was sharply reminded that Draco Malfoy had been raised in this life, and she was still teaching it to herself.

"I can't tell you," she said, adding when Draco made a noise of disgust, "but I can show you." She stood, and offered him a hand up, which he ignored. Unsurprising. Daphne led him through the house, up the main staircase, to the door of her bedroom, at which point he halted.

"I'm not interested in one of those, er... arrangements, Greengrass," Draco said stiffly. "So if that's what this is about – "

"It's not," Daphne said, flushing slightly. "That's not... no. That is not... at _all_... what I'm offering."

"Right. Okay." Draco gestured to the open door of her room. "Show me, then?"

"Of course!" Daphne entered her room, crossing to the windows on the opposite side and pulling their curtains shut. "Close the door." When Draco complied, the entire room was shaded, and tiny glowing dots could be seen all over the walls, floor, and ceiling.

"This is very fascinating," Draco said dryly, "but I don't see how your obsessive interest in Astronomy is going to be helpful."

"I don't care about Astronomy," Daphne said. She drew her wand, and touched one of the spots of light. A glowing thread sprouted from it, connecting it and another dot – then another thread from that dot to another, then another and another until the entire room was filled with crisscrossing lines of light.

Draco reached out slowly, fascinated, touching one especially bright line, and when he did, it flared slightly, and a name appeared above it: _Harry Potter_.

"What is it?" he asked.

"It's called a prerequisite model," Daphne said. "It defines the variables for an Arithmantic function. I've been building this one for two years, tweaking, customizing, stabilizing. As far as I can tell, nobody's ever tried to create a model this large – nobody's tried to solve a function that complex." Her tone turned wistful. "I was going to be published. Do you know what _Magical Theory Quarterly_ would do to get their hands on this? It was my way out, Draco. I could have gone anywhere I wanted, researched whatever struck my fancy, if it weren't for that _fucking_ prophecy."

"The prophecy changed things?"

Daphne gritted her teeth. "The model is wrong, now. It's Hogwarts; apparently the prophecy is going to impact the school somehow, and everyone in it. And I don't know enough about the situation to even begin to fix it."

"How did you even make it to begin with?" Draco asked. "This is..."

Daphne shrugged. "Observation. Research. General cleverness."

"I wasn't wrong, though," Draco said, eyes finally leaving the glowing model and locking with hers. "You do want control."

"If you want to look at it that way," Daphne said. "I just want certainty. And for the Dark Lord to stay gone."

Draco nodded. "Alright." His eyes returned to the model, and for a moment Daphne didn't like what she saw – and then he looked away, and became dull, weary, and nonthreatening again, voice reedy as he said, "Maybe we can make a deal after all."

She held out her hand and mentally made a note to update the thread entitled 'Draco Malfoy'.

* * *

_Harry:_

Florean Fortescue was an excellent peddler of marvelous creations of ice and cream, but nothing really seemed quite magnificent enough to make Harry forget about his current situation. Daphne Greengrass, however, seemed to have not a care in the world as she enjoyed her own order.

He suspected, however, that she was simply well-aware of the effect her soft noises of approval had on men in general, and was having a bit of fun at his expense. Normally, it might have worked, but her moans of delight also did not seem to be sufficient motivator to ignore the fact that his father was probably dead and that Voldemort seemed to be not nearly dead enough.

Merlin, it was only noon and already he felt exhausted.

But. If this was how Greengrass wanted to play the game, this was how he would bloody well play it.

Harry politely waited for her to finish her ice cream. "Was it good?" he asked.

"Very," she replied, sighing contentedly. "But I don't think you brought me to Diagon Alley just for a lunch date."

"You never know," Harry said. "I'm pretty desperate." There was little feeling behind the joke; he said it automatically, a reflex.

Greengrass didn't laugh; piercing blue eyes locked on his. "You're desperate about something, at any rate."

Harry looked away, out over the Alley. It was crowded with families doing their shopping and with Hogwarts students buying supplies. Little first years ran around without robes, the Muggle-borns obvious through their slackjawed amazement at everything, the wizarding children also distinctive in their own particular irreverence of the Alley's wonders.

"What are you after, Greengrass?" he asked her, surprising even himself with how casually the question slipped from his lips.

She shrugged, and if the question was in any way unexpected or unwelcome her face didn't show it. "Answers. Some sort of protection, or forewarning, at least."

Harry looked back to her. She looked the same as ever, with an expression of polite indifference. If she was lying, he couldn't tell.

"Was there something you wanted to tell me, then?" he asked. "Your letter was vague, to say the least."

She smiled. "It was. I propose a trade."

"Do you."

"Yes." She still looked indifferent, but he couldn't help but notice an undeniable air of smugness about her now. She was convinced that she had him on the hook, now.

Well, fuck that.

"You've given me no actual reason to want a trade with you," Harry said. "Hints between the lines and unspoken promises. What am I supposed to do, assume your information is valuable enough to make it worth giving up my own secrets?"

Her expression didn't change, but he thought he could almost feel the atmosphere around the two of them grow perceptibly cooler. "What do you need, Potter?"

"What are you here to tell me?" Harry asked. "General terms are fine. But I need to know what we're talking about here."

Greengrass studied him, then leaned in, beckoning him slightly closer as well. Her lips brushed his cheek, and he heard, in his ear, "It's about Trelawney."

She leaned back. To anyone passing by, it would have looked like some sort of harmless expression of young love.

Harry nodded. "Alright."

"And what do I get?"

Harry studied her for a moment. "Two questions. Perfectly truthful answers."

"How do I know you're telling the truth?" She raised an eyebrow.

"You have my word," Harry said. He didn't know if she would take that, but it was all he had to offer. Harry had never yet broken his word once given, and he wasn't intending to start with Daphne Greengrass. Her eyes pierced his for a moment, and then she nodded, slowly.

"Alright," she said. "Fair enough."

"Should we go somewhere more private?" Harry asked, feeling ludicrously awkward as he did so, like he was suggesting something much more... sordid.

Greengrass shook her head. "That would be obvious for anyone following us. No. Here should do, as long as we speak quietly and don't make any sort of scene. It's loud, and we're just another pair of Hogwarts students."

"You first, then," Harry said. She nodded acknowledgment, seeming unconcerned about having to speak first.

"I can't tell you where this came from, but... if you'll trust me, it was a high place. And I'm fairly confident that it's true." She hesitated. "Well. As confident as I can be in hearsay. But I – "

"What is it?" Harry didn't like being out in the open, even if Greengrass might have a point about it being less obvious, and he didn't want to sit here and listen to her babble when he felt so exposed.

"She's a true Seer," Greengrass said. "She's made one other prophecy, and in response to her last, the Dark Lord fell."

Harry could almost feel the blood drain from his face, willed his expression to remain stony, unchanging. "So you think..."

"That would be why I'm desperate enough for allies that I'm talking to you," Greengrass said. "Yeah."

Harry sat back in his seat, staring at the empty bowl in front of him. This offered a whole new level of terrifying validity to his dream. There had been a prophecy before the Dark Lord fell, before.

He needed to know what it had been.

"You don't know what the prophecy said?"

"No." She shook her head. "But now it's my turn, Potter. Two questions, you said? Hmm..." She closed her eyes and tilted her head back, clearly contemplating what to ask. "You'll answer completely and truthfully?"

"Yes," he said. Harry felt confident that there was nothing she could ask about that he wouldn't feel comfortable revealing.

"Why did you stay today when you already knew about the prophecy?" The question was asked in such an innocent tone that Harry almost missed the fact that it was a _very bad_ sort of question for her to be asking.

"Confirmation." Harry's tone was clipped, curt. She had said he needed to be truthful, not that he needed to be verbose.

"That's not a complete answer." Greengrass pouted; he got the distinct feeling that she didn't care whether it was complete or not and was poking fun at him, but he elaborated slightly anyway.

"I had suspicions, that's all; besides, you only said you had information on Trelawney. Maybe I was hoping to find out what room she's in at Saint Mungo's."

"I see," Greengrass said. "That's fair. This isn't one of my two questions, but do you want to know which room? I could probably find out..." A sweet smile. She was almost certainly laughing at him now.

"It was an example. Ask your second question." Harry didn't like this game.

"Be a good sport, Harry," she said. "This should be an easy one. I'm just looking for your opinion. Why do you suppose Lucius Malfoy would be preparing to step down as a governor of Hogwarts?"

Harry frowned. "What?"

"My questions, not yours," Greengrass said. "I want to know what you think, Harry. Why would he?"

"He wouldn't," Harry said. "I still don't understand, though, is he?"

"Maybe, maybe not. But you don't think he would?"

"I don't see why."

"And maybe it is that simple," Greengrass mused, for a moment jokes forgotten and her eyes distant.

"Are we done here?" Harry just wanted to leave.

"I thought we were just starting to have fun," she replied, amusement radiating from her.

Harry stood, threw a galleon on the table to cover his ice cream – it hit the table with a _plunk_ing sound, and sunk into the tabletop. Greengrass could pay for her own, as far as he was concerned.

"See you at Hogwarts!" she cheerily called after him as he walked away.

* * *

_James:_

His side hurt, and his face. He was laying on some sort of stone floor – there was some sort of commotion going on around him, a general clamor that didn't seem to have any particular direction to it. He cracked his eyes open; the surrounding area was dark. Dark. _Kingsley_.

Kingsley hadn't stopped screaming until after Rookwood had hacked his still-beating heart out.

Sitting upright, James shook his head as if to force the images from it. _Focus on the now, Jimmy_. He seemed to be in some sort of cell, one of many along what seemed to be a wing of cells.

Hearing one prisoner shout in Russian, James had a foolish momentary thought as to where he might be, but dismissed it.

"Hello, James."

"Rookwood." James was disciplined, controlled. He did _not_ want to hurt Rookwood, did not even dignify the man with dislike or hatred, only disappointment and a determination to bring him to justice – _justice, _not revenge. In this moment, he was mild, neutral, curious only for what he would next have to overcome.

These were lies, but being able to convince himself of his own lies was how James Potter had gotten where he was today.

"I see you're feeling better," Rookwood said. "Excellent. My Lord was concerned that I hadn't been gentle enough with his prize. His anger was... unpleasant." James thought he saw a shudder cross the man's shoulders, but couldn't be sure; he wore dark robes and stood in shadow.

Still calm, still cool, James shook his head. "You've misunderstood the situation. I am not Voldemort's prize."

Rookwood smiled, revealing teeth that seemed far too perfectly straight and white. In the stories he'd read to Harry, monsters always had fangs.

"Delusion and blasphemy cannot hide you from my Lord, James. He is greater than you or I, beyond what we could even hope to comprehend. And the scope of his dream – "

"Rookwood." James' voice was still flat, monotone, pleasant even, but now there was just a hint of steel underneath it as he cut off the other man's words. "If you have something to say to me, I suggest that you say it."

Rookwood looked curious now, like James was a toy he had just now discovered had an entirely unexpected, yet nonetheless intriguing function. "Why should I hurry myself for the time of a dead man?"

In another tone, spoken by another man – the words would have been a threat. But Rookwood's disturbing look of open interest, the polite fascination in his tone...

This, to Rookwood, then, was how the world _was_. The sky was blue; wands cast spells; James was dead.

"Because I assure you," James said, "I'm very much alive. And I'm offering you a chance, Rookwood. I'll take you back to the Ministry. The ruling will be insanity. You'll spend your days comfortable, in St. Mungo's."

When Rookwood's only response was a quirk of his eyebrow, James sighed. "This is going to be my only offer," he said.

"I shall relay it to my Lord," Rookwood said, mouth twisting at the corner with something that resembled amusement. "He is looking forward to meeting you, James... and it will not be long now, he says. Weeks, perhaps. And he will greet you in the flesh, a god walking the Earth, returned to save us all from the weakness of the unworthy."

James was no longer listening; he had turned and faced the rear wall of his cell.. Sitting down, he closed his eyes, pushed thoughts of Rookwood from his mind, ignored the drone of the man's voice and the disturbing reverence he held for Voldemort – focused on the hard stone under him, the bite of the cold air, the pain of his still-throbbing head that he'd been working so hard to stave off. Anything to center his mind. Anything to escape for a minute.

If he could escape for a minute, he could escape for two.

And life, James was fond of thinking, was just a lot of minutes strung together.


End file.
